


And the Walls Kept Crumbling Down

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enjolras. Please.” Combeferre’s voice cracks. “He could be your brother.”</p>
<p>And Enjolras speaks, his voice harsher than Combeferre has ever heard it even in the most terrifying of Enjolras’s speeches.</p>
<p>“He is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Walls Kept Crumbling Down

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write about the artillery sergeant scene for quite a while now so here we are.

“Enjolras. Enjolras, you don’t need to shoot him.”

Enjolras keeps his eyes pointed fixedly on the barrel of his gun.

“Enjolras, you are taking aim, you are not _looking at him!_ ”

Enjolras’s mouth forms a hard line and he does not stir, but Combeferre keeps  talking, desperation increasing in his voice.

“He has a father, Enjolras. A father, a mother, a lover. Look how young he is! Not more than five and twenty, Enjolras, _please.”_

The line of Enjolras’s mouth tightens and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if it would block out Combeferre’s voice. The artillery sergeant on the other side of the barricade turns his head, and Combeferre’s stomach twists.

 

_“I once had a companion who loved these.”_

_Combeferre notices as Courfeyrac perks up. So rare was for Enjolras to talk about his life before Paris, but it was late, they were tired, and Courfeyrac had found wine. Combeferre procured some coffee and fruit, and the combination caffeine and alcohol was making Enjolras the slightest bit maudlin._

_“Oh?” Combeferre raises an eyebrow, keeping his gaze half on Enjolras, half on the tiny orange Enjolras is holding idly in his fingers._

_“Andre, his name was. We were very young.” Enjolras tips his head back against his chair, letting his eyes flutter shut in remembrance. “He tried to climb a tree. A little orange tree. I was already at the top.”_

_Courfeyrac laughs in delight, dangerously close to spilling his wine. “Can you imagine Combeferre? Our Enjolras, half a metre tall and climbing orange trees!”_

_Combeferre sips his coffee and smiles, nodding at Enjolras to continue._

_“Courfeyrac, if you and Bahorel combined yourselves as children, you’d get Andre.” Enjolras peels his orange carefully. “He was determined to get these oranges, damn his own safety. He  fell that day, got a cut above his left cheek. Left a scar. Right...there.” He touches Combeferre’s left cheek. “He got the oranges, though. The fall made them sweeter to him.” He pops his own orange in his mouth, smiling at the taste._

_“What happened to him?” Courfeyrac asks. Combeferre picks up an orange of his own, rolling it between his fingers and keeping his eyes on Enjolras._

_Enjolras frowns, brows furrowing. “He came to Paris two years after I did, I heard. I do not know what’s become of him here.”_

Combeferre touches his left cheek, and the twisting in his stomach spreads to horror on his face when the scar above the artilleryman’s cheek falls into the light as he turns his head. Enjolras is  as a statue, face white, eyes cold, aiming the gun without looking at his target. He’s not gotten a single wound, unlike Combeferre’s bloodied knuckles and the countless cuts and gashes on his body, but the look on Enjolras’s face is wound enough.

“Enjolras. _Please._ ” Combeferre’s voice cracks. “He could be your brother.”

And Enjolras speaks, his voice harsher than Combeferre has ever heard it even in the most terrifying of Enjolras’s speeches.

“He is.”

Combeferre does not miss the tear that trickles down Enjolras’s cheek before the gun fires, clouding them both in smoke.

When the smoke clears, Combeferre reaches out his hand to clasp Enjolras’s shoulder, but at the slightest touch, Enjolras goes rigid, still refusing to look at either the body in front of them, or at Combeferre himself. Combeferre jerks his hand away as if he’s burned. And he walks away.

He walks away, leaving Enjolras standing stiff and still at the barricade, the light illuminating his pale, harsh face.

Combeferre occupies himself. He sits with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, hoping to absorb their good cheer amidst the tension that permeates the barricade. He dresses wounds with Joly, inventories weapons with Feuilly. He notices a  sheaf of papers in a corner, and when he makes his way towards them, his heart drops when he recognizes Jehan’s handwriting, scrawling verses in idle moments.

Sinking to his knees, Combeferre tries to control his breaths that suddenly go ragged. His hands tremble out of their own accord as he sits there, holding the last verses of  Jean Prouvaire.

It seems an eternity before he can get up. Shutting his eyes and letting a slow exhale pass through his lips, he carefully folds the papers and tucks them into the left side of his waistcoat, next to the note that would identify his body and requested his burial. Right above his heart.

Making his way to the front of the barricade, he finds Enjolras in nearly the same position as when he left. Stock still, illuminated now by night instead the fierce sunset of before. He is paler, almost pure white in the moonlight, his face set harder, jaw clenched stiff, eyes forward. His hair seems to be the only thing moving, no longer tied back, whipping about his stony face in the cool night air.

For the first time, Combeferre can understand what Grantaire meant when he had murmured “What fine marble!”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s voice is almost at a whisper. Enjolras doesn’t move.

“ _Enjolras.”_ Enjolras turns around, and all at once his foot twists on the barricade and he is falling, Combeferre rushing forward at once, arms outstretched and then—

Enjolras is in Combeferre’s steady arms, his hands clutching Combeferre’s shoulders. They catch their breaths together, breathing in synchronicity, and Combeferre brings their foreheads together, meeting Enjolras’s suddenly wild eyes.

And Enjolras cracks. He collapses into Combeferre’s chest, shaking, breathing apologies into Combeferre’s collarbone as he fists his hands in whatever he can grab of Combeferre’s bloody shirt. Combeferre tightens his grip, stroking Enjolras’s hair and trying not to collapse himself.

“You shall soon see to what I have condemned myself.” Enjolras whispers into Combeferre’s throat. “I said it already, didn’t I?”

Combeferre rests his fingers on Enjolras’s jaw and and lifts his chin, so they look at each other again. “Do you remember what I said in response?”

“We will share thy fate.” Enjolras’s voice breaks. “Combeferre, I don’t want—you don’t _deserve_ — none of you do—”

“Stop.”

“You never wanted this.” Enjolras’s whispers are filled with anguish. “Education, you said. Natural progress, enlightenment, _knowledge,_ and now you’re here. Blood on your hands…”he traces Combeferre’s bloody knuckles. It has been long since Combeferre was able to tell whether or not the blood was his own. “You don’t deserve the blood on mine.”

“ _Stop,_ Enjolras.” Combeferre brings their foreheads together again, takes Enjolras’s pale hand and lifts it to his lips. “I absolve you of everything. I absolve myself.” Enjolras squeezes his hands so tight as to turn them white as his own.

“Look around you, Enjolras. I spoke not for me only, but every man behind this barricade.”

“I—”

“We will share thy fate.”

 

It is those words that echo in Enjolras’s mind when he watches Combeferre’s hands scrabble uselessly over the holes in Courfeyrac’s chest, and they roar so loud in his head they drown out Combeferre’s anguished cries when Courfeyrac’s heart, always so strong and steady, no longer beats. They echo when Bossuet and Joly fall together, when Feuilly’s life is taken from him. Those words echo through Enjolras three times in succession, one for each bayonet that pierces Combeferre’s chest.

 

They echo in his heart one last time. _Every man behind this barricade_ , Enjolras thinks, as Grantaire comes stumbling through the volley of guns to place himself at Enjolras’s side.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras reaches out his hand. One last time.

 

_We will share thy fate._

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at crazyinjune.tumblr.com xx


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